de lush pastures,
where tiny rivulets trickle over fresh turf and fragrant herbs,
lulling the ear with softest echoes.

They come--dark-eyed mothers and smiling daughters, decked with
gold pins, flapping Leghorn hats, lace veils or snowy handkerchiefs
gathered about their heads, coral beads, and golden crosses as big as
shields, upon their necks--escorted by lover, husband, or father--a
flower behind his ear, a slouch hat on his head, a jacket thrown over
one arm, every man shouldering a red umbrella, although to doubt the
weather to-day is absolute sacrilege!

Carts clatter by every moment, drawn by swift Maremma nags, gay with
brass harness, tinkling bells, and tassels of crimson on reins and
frontlet.

The carts are laden with peasants (nine, perhaps, ranged three
abreast)--treason to the gallant animal that, tossing its little head,
bravely struggles with the cruel load. A priest is stuck in bodkin
among his flock--a priest who leers and jests between pinches of
snuff, and who, save for his seedy black coat, knee-breeches, worsted
stockings, shoe-buckles, clerical hat, and smoothly-shaven chin, is
rougher than a peasant himself.

Riders on Elba ponies, with heavy cloaks (for the early morning, spite
of its glories, is chill), spur by, adding to the dust raised by the
carts.

Genteel flies and hired carriages with two horses, and hood and
foot-board--pass, repass, and out-race each other. These flies and
carriages are crammed with bailiffs from the neighboring villas,
shopkeepers, farmers, and small proprietors. Donkeys, too, there are
in plenty, carrying men bigger than themselves (under protest, be it
observed, for here, as in all countries, your donkey, though marked
for persecution, suffers neither willingly nor in silence). Begging
friars, tanned like red Indians, glide by, hot and grimy (thank
Heaven! not many now, for "New Italy" has sacked most of the convent
rookeries and dispersed the rooks), with wallets on their shoulders,
to carry back such plunder as can be secured, to far-off convents and
lonely churches, folded up tightly in forest fastnesses.

All are hurrying onward with what haste they may, to reach the city
of Lucca, while broad shadows from the tall mountains on either hand
still fall athwart the roads, and cool morning air breathes up from
the rushing Serchio.

The Serchio--a noble river, yet willful as a mountain-torrent--flows
round the embattled walls of Lucca, and falls into the Me